


Empty (first attempt- story was rebooted)

by enjoyingtheimaginary



Series: Empty [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Depression, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Prostitution, Self-Hatred, Statutory Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjoyingtheimaginary/pseuds/enjoyingtheimaginary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is calm. He doesn't worry, as a matter of fact he can't anymore. Alistair has seen to that. And it's fine, honestly- probably. These days, he wouldn't be able to recognize not fine. Which is fine? </p><p>It doesn't matter, he supposes, after all, it is his fault. Or at least it was at one point. For a while, things have been so out of his control that even he can't take responsibility. Everything drifting by, untouched by him.</p><p>It's because of the drugs, it has been for a long time, since before he even got involved with Alistair. It was the drugs that let Alistair in. If it wasn’t for them, 17-year-old Dean Winchester would have never given the wiry 38-year-old staring at him, like a predator, from the other side of the bar a second look. Let alone go home with him. But he did because when the man approached him he looked him up and down, he also whispered close to his ear, “I know what you need.”</p><p>***</p><p>11 years later, Alastair and Dean are married and Dean is swimming in a mess inside his own head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty (first attempt- story was rebooted)

**Author's Note:**

> So I'd like to preface this by saying that I am very high on Oxycodon right now and a bit bored. The drugs are because I just had surgery, not because I'm addicted to drugs. Anyway, I have no idea where this came from as a whole but I'm going to give the whole writing fanfic thing a shot. There's probably going to be a lot of errors because, as I already said, I'm pretty gosh-darned high right now. Like a fucking kite, if you must know.
> 
> I've never written a fanfic before. I have a bit of an idea of where I think this will go and I think if there's some interest I'll add and tweak some things when I'm on less drugs- again, don't read into that. I had surgery and then I was reading something else and the idea popped into my head.
> 
> I'm tagging this as Dean/Cas, but I'm not sure if that's actually where this is going, even though there's a pretty good chance. Some of the tags are just in case and I intend to add more later if it's necessary. How long I continue this might depend on how much, if any, interest this gets.

Dean Winchester is calm. He doesn't worry, as a matter of fact he can't anymore. Alistair has seen to that. And it's fine, honestly- probably. These days, he wouldn't be able to recognize not fine. Which is fine? 

It doesn't matter, he supposes, after all, it is his fault. Or at least it was at one point. For a while, things have been so out of his control that even he can't take responsibility. Everything drifting by, untouched by him.

It's because of the drugs. It has been for a long time, since before he even got involved with Alistair. It was the drugs that let Alistair in. If it wasn’t for them, 17-year-old Dean Winchester would have never given the wiry 38-year-old staring at him, like a predator, from the other side of the bar a second look. Let alone go home with him. But he did because when the man approached him he looked him up and down, he also whispered close to his ear, “I know what you need.”

He remembers the bar well, one of the last things he remembers well, without the fog that hung to things in more recent memories. It was a musty, dark, rough place. Not comfortable, like the Roadhouse used to be before the fire that killed Ellen, Ash, and Jo. The music was a bit too loud and grating and the neon beer advertisements on the wall hurt his eyes. 

He was coming down. This time is was from MDA, or at least he thinks it was MDA- hard to be sure. A week or so ago it was from heroin. He could see now that he was lucky it was a small dose, because the come down could have been so much worse, but at the time he hadn’t been thinking of that. He’d just been eager for that warm feeling that hit so beautifully and entirely he was unable to move. The high would have been better if he’d had more, if he could afford more. 

All it took was a promise, whispered on a sour breath. A promise that Dean wouldn’t have to come down again, not if he was with Alistair. A promise accompanied by a brush of old, dry lips against the skin near his ear and the tickle of fingers, pushing up his left sleeve until they found his track marks.

It was a bad idea, he should have know it at the time- probably did. But what was the alternative? He was alone, he had nothing, wasn’t anyone. Everyone he knew was dead, except Sammy, but Sammy was gone too and there was no way he was ever going to see him again. Anything and anyone he used to have was long gone, except the car he was living in, and even that was out of gas. 

It used to be a nice car. A vintage ‘67 Impala. He’d inherited it after his dad died. 

The stupid fuck was so drunk he walked straight into a street and was promptly mowed down by some other drunken asshole. It’s not like Dean could blame him. They both had their vices after all. 

When he’d first gotten it it had been a beautiful shiny black, the chrome bright like a mirror. It wasn’t like that anymore. He used to love that car, used to take care of her. But after a while she started to rust, where she was parked in a dark backlot, out of sight out of mine. Somewhere he could go to escape to when there was no one else. A few years earlier it would have killed him to see her like she was, but now he was protected by the layer of apathy that went along with constant self medication. 

Medication that Alistair was willing to supply for him. And he did thats night, he took Dean to his fancy hotel room and fucked his face and held him down firmly into the soft comforter. Afterwards he held him tight to his chest and guided the needle into Dean’s arm, his chin nuzzled into the crook of his neck, humming slightly.

Dean was in it for the drugs. He needed them. It didn’t even matter what. He just needed something to kill the pain and make him forget. He just needed another hit, a bigger one this time, and then he would go back to his car and be alone. Maybe he’d even get a job and fix her up like he kept telling himself he would. No, Alistair was only a one night thing, at least that’s what he told himself.

That was 11 years earlier.


End file.
